The World Will Always Welcome Lovers
by On-the-right-road
Summary: This story is effectively Chapter 4 of 'A Kiss Is Just A Kiss' but I have posted it as a one-shot because of its rating (and because the next line in the song lyrics after 'the fundamental things apply' is actually As Time Goes By. That will be Chapter 5)! Please check out the other chapters if you haven't already done so :-)


_I'm keen to receive feedback on this one, so please review if you have time. Many thanks!_

Scene: The Bedroom

Shelagh stands contemplatively in front of the mirror, her fingers cradling the delicate silver cross nestling at the base of her throat. She has removed her veil and her hair is unpinned. It tumbles down over one shoulder in a golden brown cascade. She begins to brush her hand through it, freeing it of the whorls and tangles formed by the complicated up-do which had held her head-dress in place. The reflection she sees looking back at her - the former blushing bride; now Mrs Turner, the doctor's wife - wears a serene and contented smile.

But, oh, how it makes her heart soar with happiness to think of herself in those terms; as Patrick's _wife_. She is still fundamentally the same person she has always been, whatever her attire - be it wedding gown, skirt suit, nurses's uniform or nun's habit. But today she can't help but think she has been transposed, just as much as her reflection is. Feelings she once had to keep hidden inside for fear of shame and disobedience to her orders, she is now free to express outwardly. And what might have once felt wrong now feels right - oh-so-right. The undeniable truth is that she is in love - deeply and madly so. And she is loved equally truly in return. Today, above all days, is about celebrating that fact with family and friends and now - tonight - with each other.

Her smile deepens as she sees the reflection of her new husband in the mirror. He approaches quietly, slipping his arms around her from behind and settling his hands on her waist. Her own hands rest on top of his, their fingers twining reflexively together. He leans in and presses a tender, open kiss to the curve of her neck. Her eyelids fall shut of their own accord as she savours the devotion in his touch.

"Darling," he breathes, the word a caress and an invocation and a prayer on his lips. "Look at me." A plea, not a command.

She blinks open her eyes to meet his reflected gaze and tightens her grasp on his fingers. Even in the dimness of the moonlit bedroom she can see that his eyes are dark with desire.

"Surely you don't need to look in the mirror to know how beautiful you are?" he asks teasingly.

She lets out a tinkling laugh and smiles shyly: "I don't ..." She is about to refute his compliment but then catches sight of her own reflection again, tries to see what he sees, watching him watching her as she does so. His reverent gaze gives her her answer:

"I only know how beautiful I feel when you look at me that way."

His eyes rake down her reflection and his arms tighten around her possessively. "You are the most exquisite thing I have ever seen. You look so beautiful in this dress." He brushes his fingers over the delicate fabric at her hip, lowering his mouth to her ear and whispering huskily: "But, forgive me, my darling: I really think I need to see how beautiful you are beneath it." His voice is low and smoky, infused with a passion which is deliciously new to her. It makes her shiver with sudden longing.

She raises a hand to draw his head down, reaching back round to caress the hair at the nape of his neck; she knows it always makes him tremble with delight when she touches him there and, sure enough, he presses his lips to her neck once again in fevered response.

She tilts her head to allow him maximum access and, when he has finished marking her, she turns quickly in his embrace, her arms circling his shoulders.

"Kiss me, Patrick. Please darling, kiss me."

His response is immediate: he draws her into his arms, one hand rising to gently clutch a fistful of her trailing locks while the other falls to the small of her back, pressing her intimately against him as their lips meet. They have come to know this dance so well of late; his mouth moves over hers slowly and sensuously, his lips softly caressing hers until they part for him. The kiss deepens, gradually becoming as ragged as their breathing. Her hands tousle and thread through his hair, their mouths and tongues lap hungrily at each other, his hands roam restlessly, relentlessly up and down her body. He is kissing her oh-so-fiercely now and she can't help but respond in kind, desire coursing through her. She feels her knees begin to give way as light-headedness overtakes her. He senses it too and scoops her up into his arms, his mouth never breaking contact with hers.

When he sets her down again she is panting and flushed. Her fingers clutch and bunch at his shirt as his hands smooth down over her now-rumpled wedding gown. "I want you," he exclaims breathlessly. "I can't help it. But please darling, tell me if I'm going too quickly." He is anxious not to rush her; he has resolved to take tonight at the pace which she sets, acting only according to her wants and needs.

When she doesn't respond, he curls a finger under her chin, tilting it up and seeing the blush on her cheeks. But her eyes remain resolutely fixed on her fingers, splayed against his chest. "Shelagh?" he prompts gently, worry starting to creep into his voice. He watches her draw in a deep, hitching breath before she raises her eyes to meet his concerned gaze. They fix on his and he reads her response there:

"I want you too," she says in a voice so soft it is little more than an exhalation. But her eyes are fervent with certainty and he finds himself once again aching with love for this beautiful, brave, brilliant woman who has given up so much of her old life to forge a new one with him. He leans down and places a brief butterfly kiss on her upturned lips.

Turn around for me then," he urges, a gentle command in his tone this time rather than a plea.

She does so and meets her reflection once again. She watches as he begins to undo the buttons and laces and hooks at her back. His progress seems maddeningly slow, the intricacies of the fastenings delicate and tricky under his fumbling fingers. His breathing is still audible but his intense focus seems to calm him and she feels her own composure returning.

Finally he frees the last of the buttons and her gown starts to slip down to pool at her waist. He slides his hands down the bunched material to caress her there and rests his chin gently on her shoulder. She has been watching him intently in the mirror the whole time. "Patrick," she murmurs. He fixes her with his full attention, eyes glittering and questioning.

"Do I look different to you?" she asks earnestly.

He focuses on her face as she studies her own reflection closely: the milky exposed skin, ivory silk bra and pink-flushed complexion.

"Do you feel different?" he asks, quietly transfixed.

"I feel…" she searches for the right description: "…wanton," she settles on. He stifles his surprise at her choice of words but then her eyes flick up to meet his in the mirror and he sees it, and sees his own quickening desire reflected back at him.

"It feels right," she continues with quiet resolve. "To be with you now, like this. As your wife." His eyes glisten at the reverence with which she imbues the last word. She emphasises her point by moving his hands up from her waist to cover and cup her breasts, her fingers tightening over his at the wonderful sensation of his touch. She feels his breath shortening and her voice drops to a choked whisper: "I want to please you Patrick. I want it so much. But I scarcely know what to do..."

He turns her round to face him once again and she buries her face in his chest, clinging to him so tightly it makes him shudder. "Oh Shelagh, my darling, my love. Just let me love you. The rest will follow..."

"Yes." She nods almost imperceptibly and anoints him with a tender kiss where his heart is thundering in his chest.

His comfort, his assurance, his embrace - all embolden her to act: He stands stock still as she begins to unfasten the buttons on his shirt. He has to allow her this. "You're wearing too many clothes," she murmurs as she works the buttons open, gently tugging the garment free from where it is tucked into his waistband and then pushing it from his shoulders. He shrugs it off and, his face awash with adoration and want, watches as she untucks his vest in turn, her hands sliding up to rest on his bare skin at last. Her touch is soft and warm and tender, silken heat against his skin.

Their eyes meet and longing arcs between them, sparking them to further action. Wordlessly he pulls his vest over his head, sheds his trousers and socks and helps her slip her wedding gown the rest of the way down and off. She stands before him in just her carefully-chosen lingerie and she realises all feelings of wantonness have fled. She is merely a wife, standing before her husband on their wedding night, waiting and wanting to love him.

He seems to notice the subtle change in her demeanour. "Come here," he beckons gently, his hand reaching for hers. She twines her fingers though his and he leads her to the bed.

"Lie down my love," he instructs. She pulls down the covers, slipping into the bed and then moving over so that he can lie down beside her. He props himself up on one elbow while she watches him, breath hitching, desire and expectation shining from her face.

Despite his earlier assurances, he hardly knows where to begin, how best to express to her the love he feels emanating from every pore. His eyes travel hungrily down her body; he wants to touch and kiss her everywhere he sees.

He settles his palm lightly on the flat of her stomach, causing her to emit a slight whimper. She covers his hand with her own but her response is not the one he is expecting: "Your hands are cold!" she breathes, a hint of amusement in her voice nonetheless.

He laughs despite himself and takes both her hands, rubbing them over his own to generate warmth from her heated skin.

"Better?" he asks, returning his palm to her midriff. She smiles her approval at him and then sighs deeply as he reverently smooths his fingers up and over her breast. His other hand slides beneath her, deftly finding and freeing the single clasp holding her bra in place. He leans over her as both hands reach for the silken straps. She raises up slightly to help him as he eases the garment from her shoulders and down her arms.

When she lies back there is apprehension in her eyes as his gaze sweeps across her exposed torso. There is no need for it: "So beautiful," he murmurs just before his lips follow the path of his gaze, his mouth grazing against each breast in turn and then making the same journey in reverse. His touch is achingly tender, his movements gentle and reverent. She exhales his name in a sigh of contentment. As he continues his ministrations she runs her fingers through his unruly dark hair, pressing him more firmly to her.

He lifts his head to look at her, a teasing smile in his eyes: "Am I pleasing you my darling?" The question brings an echoing smile - one of pure delight - to her face.

"Yes. Oh, yes..." is all she can manage before he resumes once again, causing her to moan softly instead. His tongue swirls and dips over her and he traces its path with his fingertips, kneading and caressing everywhere he touches.

Just as she thinks she can stand no more he begins to trail his mouth down her body, his hands smoothing down her sides until they are resting on the waistband of her silky underwear.

He is now nestled between her thighs and she gasps as she feels the first intimate brush of his body against her centre.

He pauses and raises up on his forearms to regard her seriously: "Do you want me to continue my darling?"

Her only response is a wordless nod as she reaches out to caress his cheek, a look of wonder and adoration suffusing her slightly-dazed eyes. His own flutter briefly shut at her touch and he takes a deep breath to try to regain his equilibrium. "Shelagh," he continues insistently and she focuses on him more clearly. He needs to know she is completely accepting of what he is offering, still needs her overt permission.

"I want to do this for you my love. I want you to feel what I'm feeling."

"I do," she whispers. "It feels wonderful. Please don't stop."

He is drawn irresistibly back up her body then, sweeping her into a passionate kiss, overwhelmed with his love for her and by her acceptance, her trust in him. He tries to keep the weight of his body from pressing on her too heavily but her hands clutch at his bare back and he sinks against her as she sinks into the mattress beneath him. Everywhere their bodies touch he feels the silken heat of her skin and it feeds into the flame of desire burning through him. Finally they break apart and he raises back onto his forearms, looking down at her in breathless wonder.

"Oh Shelagh," he sighs, "My love..."

He knows he has never been so in love with her as he is at this moment. But then he seems to have been falling more and more in love with her every minute of every day since they talked of rain and wrong buses and right roads and never-been-more complete certainty. The look on her face tells him she feels the same way.

"I couldn't stop thinking about you yesterday," she confides quietly. "Knowing I wouldn't see you, wouldn't speak to you... It reminded me of... "

"When you were in the sanatorium?" he finishes for her. She nods.

"I wanted so desperately to visit you." He has already told her of how he twice drove halfway there before turning back - of how he thought it best to write to her instead.

She smiles now at the memory of his letters - heartfelt and honourable but holding back the things which he could not - would not - say, things she she could read between each line of his distinctive doctor's scrawl. "I thought of you all the time then as well."

Her admission prompts him to dip down and press a tender kiss to her lips. "And I you."

"Sometimes I even thought of us like this," she whispers, catching him by surprise. He doesn't say anything, just looks at her openly, giving her the chance to continue.

"I knew I shouldn't. But I couldn't help it. There were times when I felt so lost I cried myself to sleep. I wanted to feel your arms around me. I wanted you to love me..."

He gathers her close once again. "I did love you," he soothes. "I just couldn't tell you or show you until..."

"You can show me now..." she interrupts quietly, in a voice still tinged with uncertainty. He understands though; she is asking him to banish the memories which still haunt her, to replace them with new ones, of happiness and of love.

He releases her and moves to one side. "Give me your hand," he softly intones. She does so and gently, tentatively, he moves it, cupped in his own, to rest on the thin fabric covering her centre. She draws in a deep breath as his fingers curl over hers, applying the merest hint of pressure. He watches her face intently as he increases the contact; she gasps, a shiver running through her body and her mouth forming into an 'oh'. As he continues in a circular motion she lets out a long moan, bucking upwards against his hand and hers.

"Darling!" he gasps along with her, the sensation magnified a hundredfold by her unrestrained reaction.

His hands move to her hips, his fingers hooking into the waistband of the delicate underwear which forms almost the last barrier between them.

"Can I...?" he asks urgently. She nods her approval and manages a hissed "Yes"; her breathing is shallow and her body is thrumming with anticipation. She could never have imagined this feeling - this deep, aching sensation - which is pooling in her core. At one time - not so long ago - she recalls how just the press of his lips to her palm was enough to send tremors racing through her; despite this new level of intimacy she suspects it still would. So much of what they share is rooted in tenderness - she has never known a kinder, more decent or more honourable man than Patrick Turner. She knows the longing she is experiencing now is not merely rooted in the physical; although she feels bereft of his touch, she wants to give herself to him totally - in heart, mind and soul as much as in body - to repay his tenderness, his trust.

She reaches to help as he gently tugs the silky scrap of material down her legs, finally laying herself bare before him. She lets out a quiet groan of anticipation as he places his palms on her thighs, moving down and settling back between them.

"Are you all right?" he asks quietly. There is a ragged need in his voice and she is sure he must be able to hear it echoed in her own unfinished response: "Patrick? Don't stop now. Please...?"

He is powerless to resist her appeal; finally he lowers his mouth to her. The first touch of his tongue against her centre reverberates through her like a thunderclap. She cries out in pleasure as he repeats the action, and then in exquisite pain as he gently slips first one and then two fingers slowly inside her. For endless moments he strokes and kisses, grazes and nuzzles her, a low hum in his throat, his eyes hooded in concentration. Her body writhes beneath his touch, her fingers threading and clutching through his hair - the only part of him she can reach - holding him to her. Low moans give way to exhortations and exultations as his attentions intensify, pleasure and sensation forming a mounting crescendo. And then, with one particular combination of kiss and caress, she is swept away, her hips arching off the bed and his name soaring from her lips. He rides the wave with her until she slowly returns to herself. He moves back up her body to nestle her against him.

She feels boneless and breathless beside him; he is stroking her hair and whispering her name in wonder.

She attempts to speak: "Patrick... I... You... " She tries again: "I feel ...," but tails off, unable to find the words to express just how worshipped and adored he has made her feel, how he completes a part of her she hadn't known was missing until tonight.

She settles for resting her hand over his and drawing it down to her lips, placing a long and tender kiss on his palm. All the while her eyes bore into his, love unspoken flowing between them as has so often been the case; except now there is no turning away, no halting, no hesitation or hindrance to prevent it. He returns her gaze with searing, open honesty. There is passion and commitment, love and adoration, awe and certainty in the air between them and she thinks that, had she known all this was waiting for her, she would not have agonised so long over her decision to let herself love him. She still loves her God - even more so now for delivering all this to her - but it is her husband, her Patrick, who she will forever after devote her life to. A smile of pure happiness at the thought forms on her lips and is echoed by the returning smile which dawns on his.

"I love you so much," she finally manages to breathe, adding in quiet certainty: "And I want you to make love to me."

She can feel his need, hard and insistent against her hip, feels a small shudder pass through him at her words.

"I want to," he states as calmly as he can. "But darling, only if you're sure you want me to."

"I want you to," she repeats, "I need you to." She emphasises her point by boldly reaching over to cup him through the fabric of his underwear, feeling him strain against her in response.

"Shelagh, don't!" he hisses, stilling her hand, surprising her. "Please my darling, I won't last if you keep touching me like that," he explains contritely.

She senses he is on a knife edge and withdraws her hand, nevertheless awed at this thrilling power her touch has over him. She places a kiss of supplication on his chest before laying back, shivering with want, her eyes fixed on him as she waits for him to make his next move. He swiftly draws his underpants down and off and rolls over so that his hands rest on either side of her head, his body braced above hers, his thighs nestled inside hers.

They lock eyes and she grants him silent permission to move.

"I love you," he whispers, gently lowering himself down, sinking into her intimately, slowly, carefully. His face is strained, his eyes searching hers for any hint of discomfort or resistance. "It's OK," she whispers and takes matters into her own hands by tilting her body up to meet his, simultaneously drawing him down by the press of her hands on his back.

He cries out in surprise and surges forward to meet her; she lets out a sobbing whimper at the wondrous feeling of him filling her, forcing her down into the mattress.

They both still for a second and he rests his forehead against hers, sighing out a shaky breath. "I'm not hurting you am I?"

Her response is to kiss him - an assurance that all is well. Her lips brush against his as her hand caresses the back of his neck. He groans and deepens the kiss, moving his lower body in the opposite direction and then surging into her once more.

They start to move in counterpoint and soon establish a delicious rhythm, punctuated by tender kisses and soft moans. She had thought the previous pleasure he had given her almost unbearable in its sweet intensity; this is even more so: every movement of his body fills her completely, every kiss from his lips anoints her. Instinctively she cradles him tighter; she needs to feel every inch of his body covering her own as an exquisite feeling of pleasure begins to coil within her once again. His own breathing is becoming ragged, his movements jerky. He begins to pant her name and she tries to soothe him by stroking her fingers down his back. He responds by grasping her hand and tugging it to his lips. "Shelagh," he gasps, "Look at me...!" She meets his eyes - wild with passion, wide with love and longing - and she is undone; with one final flick of his hips she flies apart. He follows almost immediately, shuddering and spilling into her, a near-guttural moan emanating from his throat. He collapses, spent, into her arms and she bears his weight even while she tries to catch her own breath.

He senses her discomfort and reacts quickly, rolling them both over so they are side by side, her head resting on his shoulder, arms wrapped round each other, torso to torso, legs still tangled. Breathless and raw with emotion, they can do nothing more than cling fiercely to each other for several long moments.

Finally, when she feels her senses unscramble and settle back into some semblance of order, she raises her head to look at him. Evidently his recovery has been quicker than her own; he is gazing at her with an intensity which almost steals her breath away.

She anchors herself in the devotion of his gaze. His voice is filled with quiet fervour: "I don't know what I've done to deserve you - to deserve this - but Shelagh... Darling... you are the most beautiful, the most wonderful woman I've ever met. I'm not worthy of you..." She opens her mouth to protest but he places a finger gently to her lips to silence her. "But I promise you I will spend the rest of my days trying to become worthy of you." He is so earnest in his declaration that all she can do is nod, tears forming in her eyes.

She had known she loved him long before she even acknowledged that she might be in love with him: her mind had ascribed platonic, sisterly motivations to the feelings he stirred in her. But even when she knew she loved him in a way which was so much more profound - which was _everything_ - she had never really understood what love actually meant between a husband and a wife.

She can admit that to herself now. Because tonight she does know; and it is so beautiful, so all-encompassing that she feels she could weep with the joy of it. She reaches out to cup his cheek, giving him her honesty, her truth: "I love you Patrick. And you are worthy. You're a good man and you're my husband. And I love you..."

She kisses him then, too choked to say any more. Her fingers tangle through his hair as he presses her close; they exchange tender kiss after tender kiss until he tucks her against him and says softly: "Sleep now, my love, sleep."

Held securely in his arms and in his love, she does.

END SCENE


End file.
